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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720756">Love Is For The Worthy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/43T/pseuds/43T'>43T</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Overwatch (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Work In Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 15:48:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,948</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720756</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/43T/pseuds/43T</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fear of losing a loved one is ever present when you're around people on the verge of death every day. Because those people you can save. But if your partner was among them, you wouldn't be allowed to even try, because your feelings would cloud your judgement.</p><p>So when she is in such a situation, you can only pray your co-workers can bring her back to you.</p><p>They succeed. At their job, at least. What would you do if the one you love, is no longer who she once was?</p><p>*Disclaimer: The author does not own any copyrighted or trademarked content mentioned in this story, nor is in any way associated with the copyright holders. The story itself, however, is an original piece of work that belongs to the author.</p><p>**Any mention of, or resemblance to, real world brands or products has been done so for immersion. They are not endorsements.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fareeha "Pharah" Amari/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Drifting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Published 14th of February, 2020.</p><p>This prologue was typed on a phone and will likely have formatting issues.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Darkness</em>. It’s the first thought that comes to her mind. There's nothing around her. It’s thoroughly confusing. Is she dead? Is this an afterlife? What is she supposed to do here? Before she can think any more, she realizes she’s tired. She relaxes involuntarily, and nothing happens after.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Beep.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Beep.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The sound has been playing in her ears for what must have been <em>hours</em>. Her body feels constricted. She's still confused as to what has happened; what <em> is </em>happening. She can form coherent thoughts, she has no sense of vision or smell, but she can hear that one sound, over and over. Is the sound even real? She doubts it is.</p><p>Again she feels the fatigue from straining her mind, and slowly loses what little grasp on consciousness she has.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The third time she's awake, she realizes she's sleeping. She's sleeping, and she's conscious of it. Odd. There is a word for that, but she cannot for the life of her remember what it is.</p><p>The word is there somewhere in her mind, she knows it. It manifests in her subconscious like a ball of light rushing away from her through a desert.</p><p>She deems it best to not chase after it. So far, every time she has been conscious it has been easier and easier to get a grasp on herself and her surroundings. She can feel her back lying on what feels like a moderately comfortable mattress. Perhaps it's best to rest until she can feel well enough to truly wake up.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Beep.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Beep.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The fourth time, the darkness is finally gone. She's not sure what she sees. Like quickly flipping the pages of a picture book, images start flashing and disappearing into a void before she can see what they are. She only manages to catch a few glimpses. <em> Blue skies, tents lined up in a desert, a grocery store, a woman sitting next to her, blonde hair, blue eyes...</em></p><p>There are voices present as well, though they sound distant. Too faint to recognize.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Beep.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That one's always there, though.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>And everything becomes dark as her mind goes numb once again.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>She recognizes an odd smell. The word that comes to her mind is <em>chemicals. Hmm.</em> The word would've sounded foreign to her ears had she thought of it before. It's surprising how fast her mind was able to come up with it on the spot.</p><p>That is when she realizes she finally has the strength to open her eyes. And so she does; slowly, despite how much it stings, because she has made it this far and she is determined to not stop now.</p><p>Once her eyes are completely open, she raises her head. It feels like the room is spinning, but she perseveres; she's made it too far to give up now.</p><p><em>This must be what being born feels like</em>, she thinks, seeing the nearly all white room for the first time with a blank mind. The name of the room eludes her, though she feels that she should know what it is.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Beep.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Upon turning her head towards the offending sound, she finds its source being a machine. All she sees are numbers and lines, and it dawns on her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It's a heart rate monitor. I'm in a hospital room.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The realization only brings more questions. How did she get here? How long has she been here? Why couldn't she remember what the room is called, when anyone would have known almost immediately?</p><p>The last question leads to another frightening realization, one she focuses most on: <em>'I can't remember anything at all.'</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It has been 4 years to the day that I've posted a written work. I'd never written anything in-between that time, so this will be quite a challenge. Apologies for the incomplete chapter, I just wanted to get this out there. It had been on my mind to write an amnesia story for years, but I kept putting it off. So I decided to just post something with any pairing, from any fandom, and I landed here. Now that the first chapter is public, it will motivate me to get this out of my head. And hopefully make something enjoyable for everyone that reads it.</p><p>17th of December, 2020: Edited a few words while I had some time, word count up from 11829 to 11836.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Born Anew</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>What do you do when someone, whom you remember nothing about, tells you that you've been married to them for years?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Published 25th of April, 2020.</p><p>I started this in March. Things happened. Then an even bigger thing happened. When I got back to this, I realized how poorly I had written and ended up scrapping the original. Once again, this was typed on a mobile phone browser and I won't have access to a computer for the foreseeable future. Please forgive any errors, and let me know of them so I may fix it.</p><p>I'd like to thank Rocofort and tracingsmiles for their kind words, and to everyone that left kudos.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Okay. Don't panic. Think.</em>
</p><p>She tries testing her memory, deciding to start with any simple questions that immediately come to mind.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>'What building is this?' 'A hospital.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Who works here?' 'Doctors and nurses.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'What do they do here?' 'Heal sick people; they are called patients.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Are you sick?'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Beep.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>'I don't know.'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her body feels uncomfortably numb. That must mean she's been here for a long time. <em>How long?</em> She doesn't know. She tries testing her memory again, this time with broader questions.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>'How many continents are there on Earth?' 'Seven.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Which continent is the U.S. located in?' 'North America.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'How many states are there in the U.S.?' 'Fifty.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Are you from the U.S.?'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Beep.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>'I don't know.'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Now she's panicking. She had tried to keep a level head, not wanting to think about what she would do if she truly couldn't remember anything about herself. She didn't want to entertain the possibility of living life without even knowing who she is. But that possibility seems more and more real every passing moment. She desperately tries to strain her mind to search for something, <em>anything</em> that resembles an identity. But there is nothing of the sort. Not hers, nor anyone else's. She cannot even remember the vague facial features that she had seen when was asleep.</p><p>She takes a deep breath to calm herself. Her head is starting to feel heavier, and the last thing she wants is to lose herself back to unconsciousness.</p><p>So lost is she in her thoughts that she doesn't realize there is someone else in the room.</p><p>As she looks around, properly taking in her surroundings for the first time, she registers another sound besides the heart rate monitor's coming from somewhere beside her. <em>Snoring.</em> Even the simple recognition brings her relief.<em> Haven't lost everything, at least.</em> It gives her the smallest bit of hope that maybe whatever she has lost will come back to her eventually.</p><p>She finally turns to face the source of the noise, almost afraid of what she'll see. She finds the source to be a woman; blonde hair, wearing a white coat. <em>A doctor, probably.</em></p><p>The woman is sleeping on a chair, in what cannot be a comfortable position by any means. Her legs are close to her chest, one almost dangling over the armrest. Her torso seems contorted, the upper half leaning against the back of the chair while the lower half seems to be ready to give out from under it. Her arms are crossed over her knees, locking her legs in place and preventing them from falling off the seat.</p><p>She can't make sense of it. Why is a doctor sitting here with her? Even if there needed to be someone watching over her, shouldn't it be a nurse's job?</p><p>Upon a closer look at the doctor's face, she can see distinct signs of tear tracks under her eyes. It furthers her confusion. Why was a doctor crying over her? Or was it even <em>her </em>that the doctor was crying over? Perhaps she's looking too much into it. Maybe the doctor is going through a hard time and just needed a place to be alone. <em>But still, why choose </em>my<em> room? </em>Unsatisfied, she decides to push the thoughts away. She will ask when the doctor wakes.</p><p>Another look at the sleeping woman and she realizes the doctor is in poor health. Her hands are skinny, the outlines of her bones almost visible. Her face seems almost completely drained, and her body is suspiciously pale. Even though she is fair skinned, the paleness makes her seem almost ghostly. <em>Well, then, that backs up the 'She's going through a tough time' theory.</em></p><p>Not having anything else to occupy her mind, she looks over her own body. She makes note of her complexion, several shades darker than the doctor. Her arms, the only part of her body that aren't covered, have scars all over them. <em>Probably from whatever put me here</em>. She tries moving them, noting that her right arm feels steadier than her left, which has a slight tremble that she can't control. She is reminded of the stiffness in her body, and how it heavy it feels when she tries to move. She stretches her arms, mindful of the IV, and twists her torso slightly. She lets out a satisfied breath at the crackling that rips through her.</p><p>The doctor stirs at the sound, and almost falls over. It elicits a chuckle, and she is momentarily surprised by her own voice. It sounds nothing like the one she had in her mind when she was recounting what she could remember.</p><p>She doesn't have time to dwell on it, though, because the doctor is all over her in an instant.</p><p>"<em>Liebling</em>," she makes note of the doctor's accent, and how she is already choking on her tears, "you woke up." A hand is cupping her right cheek, and the other is on her left shoulder. The doctor manages a weary smile. It feels unpleasant to have a stranger's hands on her, but before she can voice that opinion the doctor is moving away towards the other side of the room.</p><p>It gives her a moment to think. There isn't much to takeaway, except that one word: <em>Liebling</em>. It isn't a name, it can't be. It isn't even an English word. Neither is the doctor, judging from her accent as well as the use of the word. But there's a strange familiarity to it. She feels as though she almost knows what it means.</p><p>Her line of thought is cut off once again by the doctor, who returns with a glass in her hands. "Here. Drink." She gratefully takes the offered glass, not having realized how dry her throat is. She sips the liquid slowly, putting it on the table beside her once she's satisfied, and turns to find the doctor looking at her expectantly. It's slightly intimidating as she looks down, squirming under the doctor's gaze, trying to find whatever words the doctor expects from her.</p><p>"I..." She can't think of anything. Thankfully, the doctor initiates a conversation for her. "How are you feeling?" That, she can answer. "My head stings a little, and my body feels heavy. I can't move my left arm properly." The doctor is writing on a notepad, and she doesn't know where it came from. "Any dizziness? Fatigue?" She thinks it over for a moment. "Yes, but not too much. It was a lot worse when I first woke up." The doctor nods, finishing her writing and clicking the pen shut. The notepad is placed on the table beside her, and the doctor is moving again.</p><p>She comes back with a bag and begins rummaging through it. "I brought your laptop in case you get bored. I know you don't like hospital food, but we didn't know when you would wake up so I didn't bring anything with me."</p><p><em>That reminds me.</em> "How long have I been out?" The doctor pauses, looking up from the bag. "Almost two months."</p><p>Ah. Two months. Not a big deal. The amount of time one would spend reading a long book, or learning a new instrument. But that isn't the question she needs answered the most. The question she really wants to ask is, <em>'Who am I?'</em></p><p>The doctor stops her searching and pulls out a small, transparent plastic bag.</p><p>"I also got your ring," her voice is breaking again, "it was...it was covered in blood, but-" an audible gulp of air, "but I got it cleaned." The small bag is handed to her, and she fishes the ring out. For a moment the trembling of her left hand makes it difficult to put the ring on, but she manages. A perfect fit<em>. Of course. It's my ring, why wouldn't it be.</em></p><p>So she's married. Or engaged. There's someone out there who knows her name, who loves her enough to spend their life with her. But if that's so, why wouldn't they be here? Why, instead of whoever her partner is, there's only a doctor here? A mindless glance at the doctor's right hand halts her thoughts. There's a similar ring on one of her fingers.</p><p>"We match," she says absent-mindedly. The doctor tilts her head with an amused smile growing her face. "Yes, Fareeha, we match."</p><p>
  <em>Fareeha. Is that my name?</em>
</p><p>The next five minutes are full of awkward silence, until she finally builds up enough courage to ask, "Who are you?"</p><p>The doctor's smile slowly gives way to a confused frown, and she reaches forward. "Fareeha?"</p><p>She moves as far back as she can without falling off. "Please don't touch me."</p><p>The doctor's apparent confusion is quickly turning into worry. "What's wrong, <em>liebe</em>?"</p><p>She tries to speak as calmly as she can, ignoring the wetness forming in the doctor's eyes. "Where are my relatives? And my spouse? Why aren't they here, and why are you so worried about me? How do you know me?"</p><p>The doctor falls back on the chair, looking stunned out of the ability to speak. The pool of tears spills over her cheeks as realization sets in. The following silence is irritating. She's had enough of not knowing, but she doesn't feel like speaking due to the look on the doctor's face. The doctor raises her head ever so slightly, lifting her eyes to make contact, and a small voice creaks out, "Please tell me you're kidding. Please, just say this is one of your awful jokes. This is <em>not</em> funny, Fareeha." The last part is more of an angry hiss than anything else.</p><p>Now she's had enough of being polite. "How do you know my name if I don't?" For a second time, shock flashes across the doctor's face. "I— What?" She — <em>Fareeha —</em> looks down at her scarred hands, "I have... no recollections about myself," she looks back towards the doctor, "You said my name is Fareeha, didn't you? How do you know me?"</p><p>The doctor's mouth opens slightly, and she hangs her head in defeat. More silence. It's maddening. Her eyes look up towards Fareeha, and she taps her right ring finger. "We match," the doctor says in a low voice, as if that answers everything.</p><p>Fareeha looks down at the doctor's ring, then her own. <em>We have matching...</em></p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>"I'm married to a woman?" It's more of a confusion-laced statement than a question. But as soon as she says it, she's sure of it. Of course she's married to this woman. Why else would a doctor be sitting beside her, crying over her and be in such a poor state of health?</p><p>The woman in question breaks into a low, humorless and bitter laughter, bringing her knees to her chest, crossing her arms over them and placing her head there. It does not take long for the mirthless laughter to break down into choked sobs.</p><p>Now Fareeha is afraid to ask any more questions. She looks over the woman once again. She is... married to her. She tries to examine the woman — her<em> wife. </em>For what, she isn't sure. She doesn't know if she even likes women. But her wife does look gorgeous, despite her current state. She wouldn't be opposed to the idea of being married to her, if the circumstances were different. That brings her back to reality as another question comes to her mind. She's almost afraid of the response, considering the woman's current state, and thinks it's best to wait until the sobs quiet down.</p><p>It takes another four uncomfortable minutes for silence to envelope the room, and she spends another two to build up the courage to ask. Finally, she opens her mouth, "What's your name?" She's painfully aware of the awkwardness of the question.</p><p>"Angela," comes out the woman's voice, muffled by her knees, and Fareeha is briefly surprised at how small it sounds. How defeated. "Angela Ziegler."</p><p>The following question comes out much easier.</p><p>"How long have we been married?"</p><p>"Six years." The answer brings another moment of stunned silence.</p><p>"Is my last name Ziegler too?"</p><p>This time the answer comes out as a choked sob followed by a slow nod.</p><p>Fareeha has so, so many more questions, but she cannot find the voice to ask a single one. She opts for looking down and mulling it over. <em>Fareeha Ziegler.</em> The name doesn't fit well, but it's hers.</p><p>She doesn't know what to do next. What is one even <em>supposed</em> to do in such a situation? She feels the tiredness setting in, and suddenly sleep doesn't sound like a bad idea anymore. She lays back down, not daring to look at her distressed spouse. Before she closes her eyes, she catches sight of the hospital bracelet with <em>Fareeha Ziegler </em>staring back up at her. She mumbles a small, "Thank you," to Angela. Before her mind goes blank, she feels her left hand being caught in a weak grip, a thumb lightly rubbing circles on its back.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm still not satisfied with the prologue. I will be editing it later. I should also mention English isn't my first language.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. First Day As Fareeha Ziegler</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Published 30th of April, 2020.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next time she wakes, there is another doctor present. What follows is a series of questions, most of them she can only give one answer to.</p><p> </p><p>"What is your name?"</p><p>"Fareeha Ziegler."</p><p>"You remember it?"</p><p>"It's on my hospital bracelet."</p><p>"Where were you born?"</p><p>"I don't remember."</p><p>"Where do you live?"</p><p>"I don't remember."</p><p>"Do you remember how you got here?"</p><p>"No, I don't."</p><p>"Do you know this woman?"</p><p>"She is my wife."</p><p>"You remember her?"</p><p>"She told me she is. I believe her."</p><p> </p><p>The interrogation is followed by some tests. They do an X-ray, a CT scan, check her blood, and a few others that she doesn't think too much of. Curiously, they don't ask much about the trembling in her left arm. It would suggest that the arm had been this way since before the... incident.</p><p><em> Retrograde Amnesia. </em>That's what they call it. Unsurprising. She had that figured out already. As for the accident, they say she was hit by a van that had slid off the road.</p><p>
  <em>Black ice: An event where a thin layer of ice forms on a road, invisible to the naked eye. It has the potential to make vehicles lose control, with no way for drivers to be aware of the situation.</em>
</p><p>She was taking a walk with Angela when it happened, so says her wife. She doesn't talk any more on the matter, however, and looks away. Fareeha narrows her eyes, but decides not to push further.</p><p>When they talk about how severe her injuries were, she doesn't miss how her wife deflates. The blonde doctor is standing next to Fareeha, on her left, and she notices Angela's hand attempting to reach for her. It causes discomfort, knowing that Angela wants to hold her but is restraining herself at Fareeha's request. She chooses to look at the other doctor instead, who seems finished with his analysis.</p><p>Noticing the attention on him, he speaks up, "We have good news and bad news. The good news is, physically, you'll make a full recovery in a few months. You'll have some trouble moving around at first, due to how long you've been asleep, but exercise will help you recover most of your strength before long."</p><p>He clears his throat and, without even looking, Fareeha feels the woman beside her stiffening up. "Now for the bad news. Your head suffered the most trauma from the event. Your amnesia is one of the results. There could be other side effects we haven't seen yet, so make sure to report anything unusual." Fareeha nods as he continues, "We did our best to mitigate brain damage, but as you can see, it wasn't enough. It's too soon to tell when, or if, your memories will come back. I'm sorry."</p><p>Fareeha doesn't know what to think about that. As they discuss the workings of the brain, the amnesia is described to her as a 'restart'. Trauma affects memories and, to prevent further harm, the mind lets go of any fragmented data. In severe cases, that can even include its own identity.</p><p>How strange, to think of it that way. That Fareeha Ziegler is now gone, her light extinguished, and <em>she</em> is merely a shell. Still, they assure her that the mind doesn't always <em>destroy</em> the data; it's simply misplaced or stored in a dark corner. They encourage her to not give up hope.</p><p>When the tests and briefings are all complete, she is once again alone with her wife. The room is engulfed in an awkward silence. She looks up at the blonde woman and tries to think of something to say. <em>'Ask her how we met? No, too far. Where we live? Maybe that's less awkward.'</em></p><p>She realizes she and her wife have been staring at each other and, in a panic, blurts out the first thing she can think of. "So do you work here?" She mentally, and almost physically, slaps herself.</p><p>Her wife seems taken aback by the sudden question, and takes a breath before nodding, "Yes, I've been working here for the past five years."</p><p>Fareeha nods, stores the information somewhere in her mind, and looks away. She hears footsteps, and steals a glance to see the blonde doctor heading for the door. A low, "Excuse me," is all she hears before the door is promptly opened and closed.</p><p>Now alone, she tries to collect herself and recount what she knows. <em>'My name is Fareeha Ziegler, and I'm twenty nine years old. I was involved in an accident, I've been in a coma for nearly two months, and I have amnesia. I have a wife, her name is Angela Ziegler, she is a doctor, she works at this hospital, and she's quite beautiful...'</em></p><p>The last thought gives her a pause, before she adds, <em>'And I don't know what I look like.'</em></p><p>Her eyes drift to the navy blue bag on the table near the foot of the bed. Angela had mentioned bringing Fareeha's laptop. Surely it would have pictures and various information about her. She doesn't make the effort to reach for it, as the doctors - her wife included - had told her not to move for the day. She's pondering over what she would find in it when the sound of the door opening catches her attention. It's her wife, now holding a steaming paper cup in her hands.</p><p>The doctor drags the chair closer to the bed and gently takes a seat, mindful of the hot beverage in her hands. Fareeha registers the faint aroma coming from the cup as coffee. Judging by the bitterness, the cup must be little more than pure caffeine.</p><p>As she watches her wife take a sip, she wonders what kind of beverages she enjoys herself. Does she prefer coffee or tea? Does she drink alcohol? Is she more inclined towards bitter drinks? She sees it as an opportunity for conversation, and takes it.</p><p>"Do I like coffee?" Perhaps she should have taken a few moments to think her words through. Her wife gives a look. "You used to drink it more, but for a few years now you've mostly stayed off of it. When you do have a cup, it's always decaf. You like sweet drinks more."</p><p>"Hm," is all Fareeha can think to say. She wonders if any of that has changed. Does she still have the same preferences as the person she was? If she doesn't, would her preferences change if she gets her memories back?</p><p>She looks at the cup in her wife's hands, and has the urge to find out if she's changed. "Can I try a sip?" Her wife's hands stop in their tracks as she seems to think it over. "Sorry, but you'll have to wait a few days before it's safe for you to drink caffeine." Fareeha slowly nods, and looks out the window on the other side of the room.</p><p>She wonders how well her wife knows her, and how much of that still holds true. They've been married six years after all. Long enough that they must have known each other's every secret.</p><p>It occurs to her then that Angela has seen her naked. She shifts nervously, somehow feeling <em> self-conscious </em> of all things, as the knowledge settles in. This woman has seen every inch of her, while she doesn't even know what she looks like. It brings a bizarre line of thought. How <em> does </em> she look? Did Angela marry her for her looks? What would she think of her now, with all the scars from the accident marring her skin?</p><p>Her panic must be showing, because the concern is starting is to grow on Angela's face. "What's wrong?" Fareeha has to look down quickly, feeling her face grow hot. She can only manage a meek voice when she replies, "Nothing." Angela does not look convinced. "As a patient, you have to tell me what's wrong. Spouse or not, I'm still your doctor." The stern voice only causes her face to heat up further. <em>How am I supposed to ask a stranger what she thinks of my body?</em> She tries to find the words to placate her wife's rising aggression. "It- it's nothing you need to be concerned about. Really." Angela's eyes <em>twitch</em>. "Then as my wife, tell me regardless."</p><p>It's too much for Fareeha as she buries her face in her hands and blurts out, "I was just wondering what you'd think of me if you saw me naked now." It's a wonder she was able to get the words out of her mouth without stumbling. Fareeha sneaks a peek at Angela and sees the wheels in her mind screeching to a halt. Her ears are slowly turning red as she squeaks, "Oh," and looks away. The color slowly takes over her face as she starts fumbling for words. "I- I'm sorry for- pushing you like that. Old habits. You're always so stubborn, you know...?" <em>No. I don't.</em> Angela must realize it too as she cuts herself off before clearing her throat and trying again. "To answer your question, I've never been bothered by your scars. A few more won't make any difference." <em>Won't. Like she's sure she will see me naked again in the future.</em> The rogue thought brings another heat wave to her face as she imagines the woman slowly undressing her and tracing her scars.</p><p>A few moments pass as both women gather their thoughts. It gives Fareeha some time to ponder over her wife's words, and she comes to a realization.</p><p>"Wait. 'Never been bothered by my scars'? What do you mean by that?"</p><p>Angela looks at her, realizing what she had let slip. Her eyes grow wider, she opens her mouth and gulps audibly before carefully saying, "I wanted to ease you into it. You're a retired soldier. You've had scars for a long time."</p><p>Fareeha lets her mind soak up that nugget of information. <em> That explains my left arm. </em></p><p>For the remainder of Angela's break, she sticks to asking trivial questions. She asks about her favorite foods (mixture of sweet and spicy), drinks (fruity rather than energy), hobbies (cooking, working out), and any other little things she can think of.</p><p>She decides she likes this Angela; the protective doctor/wife who scolds her even in her current state, who gets embarrassed at her behavior, who spends her lunch break keeping her amnesiac wife company.</p><p>She's better than the Angela who was curled up uncomfortably in a chair, who was laughing bitterly upon her waking, who was already mourning her lost wife.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Ready?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>How do you prepare to return to a life you don't remember living?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Published 24th of May, 2020.</p><p>This chapter was supposed to have been finished 2 weeks ago, but circumstances were very unkind to me. I hope you have been doing well.</p><p>25th of May, 2020 – Title updated from "Love Is For The Worthy (Which You Are)" to "Love Is For The Worthy"</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The remainder of the afternoon goes by rather quickly. Angela leaves three minutes before her break is over, with a promise to visit again before leaving for home.</p><p>It gives Fareeha something to think about. Home. Can she even call it that anymore? Of course, <em>legally</em> it is her place of residence, but does she belong there now that she isn't who she once was? Would Angela still want to keep her? And if so, would she keep her out of duty, love, or pity? Is she free to choose her own place, or does she have to be a woman she doesn't remember being, for a woman she doesn't remember marrying?</p><p>She thinks back to when she had asked Angela about what she liked doing before the accident.</p><p><em> "Nothing in particular, really," </em> Angela had said, <em> "You were free as a bird. After retiring from the military, you'd decided you didn't want to work anywhere again. Especially with your injuries. So, for the past two years, you had just been doing whatever you liked. That mostly involved working out at first, but you also took an interest in cooking." </em> Angela looked away and let out a small chuckle before continuing, <em> "You'd always say it was making up for all the awful food you were served while deployed." </em></p><p>For whatever it's worth, she takes comfort in the knowledge that she does not have any pressing matters to attend to. It sounds like she can still live a normal life without her amnesia having dire consequences.<em> Save for people that knew me...</em></p><p> </p><p>How is she supposed to face friends and family members? Surely anyone close to her must know about her condition by now. How would she start the conversation? <em> Hi, I'm Fareeha Ziegler, but you know that already. Sorry, but you'll have to introduce yourself to me again because I don't remember anything about my life. </em> She dreads the fact that such an exchange is almost certain to happen in the future.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Angela upholds her promise, walking into the room a few minutes past 7. She brings along dinner, helps Fareeha sit up comfortably, sets the plate on Fareeha's lap, and takes a seat beside her on the bed. Fareeha doesn't object; after all, she <em> is </em> her wife regardless of who Fareeha believes herself to be. It's soothing to have someone by her side, someone who doesn't seem to care about whether or not she is the same person she was two months ago.</p><p>She picks up the spoon, looks at her options, picks up and carefully places a small piece of carrot in her mouth. Her face contorts almost instantly at the sour taste. "I see why you said I hate hospital food," she says to the woman beside her, as she closes her eyes and tries to focus on suppressing the taste. A soft string of laughter reaches her ears and it's enough to make her forget about the unsavory piece of vegetable she's slowly chewing. She focuses on the doctor's voice as she speaks, "Sorry. I'll make sure to bring you something better tomorrow."</p><p>She swallows a few more pieces of carrot and tries to put the plate away, but a pair of hands immediately stop her in her tracks. "Uh uh. You need to finish it all. You barely have the energy to sit up." She can't argue with the doctor's statement, but she would prefer to not eat any more of what must barely qualify as edible food. The offending hands grow insistent, forcing the plate closer to her. "<em>Stop</em> behaving like a child and <em>eat</em>. It's for your own good." The doctor's voice is firm, and Fareeha almost feels as if she really is a child.</p><p>After Fareeha reluctantly finishes all her vegetables, Angela puts the plate away and leaves with a kiss on her head and a promise to return first thing the next morning. She almost wants to ask her to stay. She's afraid of being alone with her thoughts again, of trying to think how she could live a normal life like this. But she doesn't think she can handle her wife any more for the day.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It's a quarter to 8 when she wakes the next morning, and it takes about three minutes for her to become fully aware of her surroundings. She tries sitting up, but her vision quickly starts spiraling and she has to close her eyes to try and stop the incoming headache. <em> Angela was right. I don't even have the energy to sit up. </em> She gently lays back down and sees no other option than to wait.</p><p>Nine minutes later, the door opens to reveal her wife. The doctor's movements seem almost mechanical as she walks in and closes the door behind her.</p><p>Outside of her thoughts, the blonde has already taken a seat on the bed and is waiting with outstretched hands to help her sit up. Fareeha gratefully leans towards her and Angela slowly adjusts the bed as she holds her wife. Just as the previous night, a plate is placed on her lap once she is sitting up, and soon it's full of finely sliced pieces of green apple.</p><p>As she starts eating, savoring the taste as opposed to the night before, Angela speaks up. "You should be able to start walking by tomorrow," says the doctor, taking a bite out of her toast. Fareeha is skeptical. "Are you sure? I tried sitting up by myself and it gave me a headache." Angela nods and says, "You may have trouble moving immediately after waking up, but it will be gone by noon." Fareeha takes in the information, nods and returns to her meal.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A week passes, and she is now able to walk for longer than five minutes without her legs giving out from under her.</p><p>Fareeha now has an opportunity that she thought she would take in a heartbeat, but she realizes that perhaps she isn't as brave as she had believed herself to be. It would take little effort to walk into the bathroom by herself and have a glance at her face in the mirror. But every time she has to use the bathroom, her eyes cannot look up from the floor.</p><p>Some time ago, she was desperate for an identity; to find out who she is, what she looks like, what her place is in the world. Now that she is able to search for the answers, she's afraid of what she would find.</p><p>The doctors have said she will be discharged soon; which means going home with Angela, going back to the life she had lived before she lost all that she knew about herself.</p><p>It all seems so daunting. There will be people who knew her, who will ask questions about how she feels, and if she remembers anything at all.</p><p>
  <em>And then there's my mother. </em>
</p><p>Angela had told her about Ana Amari. <em> "She was asking about you almost every day after the accident," </em>she had said, <em> "When I told her you were awake, it was hard to stop her from visiting." </em> Angela had looked at her fondly then, <em> "You definitely get your stubbornness from her." </em> While she holds nothing against her own mother, Fareeha is grateful to Angela for not letting Ana see her here.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>She finds herself at the door again, trembling left hand ready to push it open. She imagines how strange this must look to a passer-by with no knowledge of the context; one hand pressed against the door but not opening it, staring at the handle looking dead on her feet. Every time she has tried to mentally prepare herself, this is as far as she has gotten. It's here that she realises she isn't nearly prepared to face her own self, <em> let alone </em> a life that she is expected to go back to. As she's contemplating what lies ahead, she catches a glimpse of a nurse that she knows has passed by her twice before. Apparently the entire hospital staff knows her at this point, and it would only be a matter of time before Angela arrives to ask her what's wrong.</p><p><em> Angela Ziegler. The perfect wife. Spending all her free time with me but staying just far enough so I'm comfortable. Knows me better than I know myself, even as someone who's only been 'alive' for a week. </em> It isn't that she dislikes Angela. She greatly appreciates the company. But, every time they sit in silence, the air around her is thick with melancholy. She can't place a finger on it, and she doesn't believe that her wife has any ulterior motives. But when Angela slips into her 'stern' persona, it's a jarring change that she'd rather not face. And when she sees the nurse pass by her a fourth time, she knows there will be no fifth. No; the next time it will be Angela stalking towards her, demanding to know what's wrong. And it's this realisation that has her moving.</p><p>Her hand pushes the door, harder than necessary, she steps inside and locks it behind her in one quick motion. Her heart has started racing, and she has to lean against the door in an effort to calm down.</p><p> </p><p>A few minutes later, she's looking at the mirror. The angle makes it so that she cannot see herself, and her heart is picking up its pace again. Nothing has prepared her for this. She is convinced nothing <em>can.</em> And maybe that is the core issue. She doesn't think she will ever be prepared; she will just need to force her way through. So she steels her nerves, wills her eyes to stay glued to the mirror, and takes the plunge.</p><p> </p><p>When she's suddenly in front of the mirror, her eyes are adjusting their focus and her mind is once again panicking. When her vision clears, an anxious face is staring back at her. The first thing that stands out is the tattoo. She recognises it as originating from somewhere in Asia, but even after straining her mind, cannot find the name of its culture. Her dark hair is reaching well below her shoulders, indicating she used to keep it short.</p><p>A loud knock on the door makes her jump, interrupting her examination. "Fareeha, are you all right?" <em>Of course, it's Angela.</em> "Yes, I'm okay," she insists, before looking back at the mirror. Her vision is blurry again, but this time not due to lack of focus. The dampness grows until she sees a pair of wet trails on the cheeks of the woman in the mirror.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I want to make a few things clear now that we are getting somewhere:</p><p>I have never played the game and have little to no knowledge on anything, except a few characters.</p><p>I may include errors in first person speech or thought, for realism.</p><p>As English isn't my first language, I'm constantly torn between writing in the US and UK versions. You may see inconsistencies, and I apologise in advance.</p><p>I consider this chapter to be my worst one, but felt it necessary to include another whole chapter in the hospital before moving the scene to their home. Apologies, and I promise it gets better from here.</p><p>The desire of writing an amnesia story has been with me for a long, long time. When I decided to finally write one and picked this fandom on a whim, this couple was not my first choice. I had conceptualised the original story with Symmetra/Sombra.</p><p>Ultimately, I chose this couple because it is more popular by far; many of my ideas were either put aside or modified to fit this narrative.</p><p>But, I now have a clear picture of where to go with this, and I will see it through to the end. Perhaps if this does well, I may write the story I had originally wanted to.</p><p>Stay safe.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Home of Two, Heart of None</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Published 29th of June, 2020.</p><p>Word count before publishing: 6287</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next day, she gathers the courage to power on her laptop. She had been trying to avoid discovering anything about herself out of anxiety, but she will now have to face reality sooner rather than later. She has only a few more days — “Less than a week,” to repeat what Angela had said — before she will be facing her fears, whether she’d want to or not. She can no longer afford to delay the inevitable.</p><p>When the screen lights up after the company logos, she has to take a moment for the image that greets her.</p><p>The wallpaper background is a photo of herself and Angela. The camera is focused on the couple, blurring their surroundings, and she cannot make out where they’re standing. In the photo, she is wearing a jacket, deep sky blue in colour, while Angela is wearing a white turtleneck sweater. The blonde woman is resting her head on Fareeha’s left shoulder, Fareeha’s arm wrapped around her, while Angela’s fingers are clutching Fareeha’s right arm. Fareeha’s dark hair is nigh shoulder length, decorated with gold. What has her mind reeling, though, are the sparkling smiles on their faces.</p><p>It’s… uncanny, to see Angela Ziegler like this. The only time she has seen the doctor smile was when she had first woken up. It was a weary one, a sign of relief after nearly two months of worrying about when or <em>if</em> her wife would return to her. It was soon followed by a smile of amusement; surely she must have thought her wife was simply being cute, unaware of the emotional hell that would follow. Since then, the blonde woman has only emanated an aura of gloom. Her bitter laughter, when Fareeha first revealed she remembers nothing of her life, was dripping with loathing. Fareeha still isn’t sure if it was aimed at <em>her</em> or the circumstance. To see <em>that</em> Angela Ziegler wearing a smile that reaches her eyes, is making her feel addled.</p><p>She looks at herself in the photo; it’s quite the contrast of what she saw yesterday in the bathroom mirror. This face has no sign of tiredness, does not look like someone who is lost, and she can see in her eyes that this woman is truly content with having the doctor by her side. Will she ever feel that way about Angela? Thus far, it seems unlikely.</p><p>It isn’t as if she doesn’t want to be closer to her wife. That couldn’t be further from the truth. She wants to get to know Angela better. She had once loved the woman enough to agree to marry her; to vow to spend the rest of her life with her. And even take her name. There must have been good reasons behind it, and she wants to learn them all.</p><p> </p><p><em>But.</em> There is something to be said about how Angela sees <em>her</em>. She can’t piece together what exactly the doctor’s feelings towards her are. Angela has kept her company every single day, always made sure she is getting proper nutrition, even kept Fareeha’s own mother away so as to not overwhelm her even further. Yet, Fareeha always feels uncertain about seeing her. Over the past week, she’s noticed how Angela’s emotional state changes. It always happens when she says or does something that the doctor doesn’t approve of. In those moments, she doesn’t feel like Angela’s wife; she doesn’t feel like they are equals. She feels like a placeholder, someone who’s only there to keep the body alive until <em>Fareeha Ziegler</em> returns.</p><p>She looks back at the Angela in the picture, and tries to imagine the woman’s happiness directed at <em>her</em>. The thought sounds almost alien. <em>That’s far enough down Memory Lane,</em> she decides and promptly shuts down the computer.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She hasn’t been able to get her arm to stop shaking. She drank water no less than seven minutes ago, yet her throat feels dry. She has packed, unpacked, and repacked her bag thrice. She has read the note Angela gave her which contains their address, and chanted it to herself a dozen times. She has stared at the wallpaper background of her laptop for almost fifteen minutes, trying to picture herself and her wife as a regular couple, content with their life together. And still she’s defenceless against the assault on her nerves.</p><p>Her senses immediately pick up the soft footsteps walking into the room, and she braces herself.</p><p>A familiar voice in an unusually soft tone calls out, “Ready?”</p><p>A wave washes over her, amplifying the trembling of her arm, as she slowly turns to look at the doctor. Her eyes can't make it there.</p><p><em>No</em>.</p><p>She says nothing, moving to pick up her bag. As soon as she tenses her arms to lift it, there's a hand tugging on her shoulder. "Don't. You need your strength." She doesn't have the voice to argue; it had been an early casualty in the battle against anxiety. Still, she puts up some light resistance, which Angela is easily able to break. With nothing more left to keep her here, when Angela starts walking, she has no choice but to follow.</p><p> </p><p>She looks at the corridor, making notes of every little detail. The slightly chipped corners of the doors, the faint tracks on the floor from dragged stretchers, the slight crack in a tile's corner, the off-colour dress of a passing nurse, the yellow coloured drink on said nurse's plate. She wonders what fruit it's made from, what it tastes like. Whether it's freshly squeezed or packaged juice. Whether she would prefer artificially flavoured over natural. Whether she would like drinking it with a plate of eggs, or plain toast.</p><p>Things that most people take for granted. Things that, if not for her condition, she might also have taken for granted. It sounds improbable, but she wants to remember every detail about every little thing. She can take this as an opportunity to appreciate things she may never have noticed before.</p><p>The elevator doors are open when they reach it. They walk inside, and Angela pushes the button on the bottom row labelled <em>Parking Lot</em>. The automatic doors close, and as they slowly begin descending, she can feel her heart dropping just like the mechanical contraption they're in. She doesn’t know what she wants to do; scream, run, collapse, or maybe push the <em>Emergency Stop</em> button and hope they never move again. The awkward silence is all too familiar, but this time, Angela seems determined to not let it linger.</p><p>She hears the doctor clear her throat, “I’m sorry.” She looks at the blonde then, searching her face. What for, she doesn’t know yet. The doctor speaks up again, “I know I’ve been… difficult,” she doesn’t miss the audible gulp, and Angela glues her eyes to the floor before continuing, “I’m just so lost. I don’t know how to deal with this. I thought you were <em>gone</em>, and now you’re <em>here</em>, but you’re not…” Her voice falters, “I was afraid you’d want to leave me, and I don’t know what I would do if that happened.” Angela covers her mouth, “But I can’t just make you stay with me if it isn’t what you want. I didn’t know what to do, so I panicked and got angry like I used to.” She looks up, hand returning to her side, and their eyes finally meet, “I swear I won’t let it happen again. No matter what you decide.”</p><p>She doesn’t know why Angela would think she’d leave her. Yes, she isn’t who she once was, and feels no obligations towards her wife, but Angela is still the only person in the world she knows; despite her doubts, Angela is the only person she believes she can trust. And Fareeha knows the doctor is being genuine here. The determination in her eyes is unmistakable. This is the first time she has seen such a level of emotion from the blonde, and she can’t help how it warms her heart. It’s enough to help her fight to regain control of her nerves.</p><p>She looks down at the doctor’s free hand, slowly grabs hold of it, intertwining their fingers, and looks back to her wife’s eyes. She still hasn’t found her voice, but hopefully she speaks through her actions clearly enough.</p><p>It works, and Angela manages a small smile as she gives her hand a gentle squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>The elevator dings as the LED display reads <em>P</em>. When the doors open, she lets go of Angela’s hand and lets her lead the way. They walk in silence, Fareeha stealing glances at the parked cars. She tries to identify the different brands from their logos to see if it can jog her memory. She looks at the first car they pass. <em>A stylized H... There are two big companies with an H in their logo.</em> She can't think of the name, so she turns to another one. <em>White and blue checkers in a black circle... German company. Old.</em> Another name that eludes her. She glances at another. <em>Ford. American. Well, at least I know something other than their name. Still, that doesn't count because the name is in the logo itself.</em> She looks at another car in the distance, which seems to be the one they're heading towards. Her suspicion is confirmed when they get close enough for her to read the sign next to it.</p><p>
  <em>‘Reserved for Dr. Angela Ziegler’</em>
</p><p>As they approach the car, she takes in its details. There’s no visible brand logo, and she doesn’t know the design well enough to guess the company. But one thing stands out to her: a metallic strip on the front that splits in the middle and extends to both sides, cutting through the headlights. The strip lights up when they get within three feet of the car. She reaches the passenger side door and waits for Angela to put her bag in the back.</p><p>As she could expect, the inside of the car is just as fancy. There’s an electronic display all the way across the dashboard, and the portion of it in front of her reads <em>‘Hi, Fareeha,’</em> with a picture of her next to it. She glances over to the driver’s side, and surely enough, sees a similar message for Angela.</p><p>Even with her currently limited knowledge, she can guess that something like this doesn’t come cheap. The car lets out a silent hum as it comes to life. <em>Must be electric. Definitely not cheap.</em> It gives her a clue on what to expect from the house.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Her brain is on autopilot when they arrive at their destination. She steps out of the car and is afforded a moment to take in the scene as Angela moves to the back to gather their bearings. The house is moderate in size; two floors, a garage, a balcony, a large front yard. Not the kind of house that one chooses for a family of two.</p><p>Her mouth dries at the implication, but she wills it out of forethought. <em>More pressing matters at hand, Mrs. Ziegler.</em></p><p>Angela places the two bags at the doorsteps and opens the garage door. As Angela gets back into the driver’s seat, Fareeha peeks inside and sees a motorcycle, with a navy blue helmet decorated with a sticker of a wing. <em>That’s mine, most definitely.</em> She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to follow Angela into the garage or wait for her to open the front door. She opts for standing outside the door.</p><p>The car shuts off and Angela steps outside. As she walks towards her wife, she notices the stare. When she reaches Fareeha, she looks back towards the motorcycle, “You’d take me on rides, sometimes. I never liked that thing, though. It’s an accident on wheels.”</p><p>Fareeha thinks she may have understood what Angela is trying to say. <em>Less bike rides from now on. Got it.</em></p><p> </p><p>The interior of the house is about as decorated as she had expected. Warm colours with minimalist design elements, meant to be soothing and inviting. Nothing too grand, but enough to make someone notice. They enter the living room, and she soaks in the atmosphere. The minty fresh smell, the carefully made sofas with not a single crease between them, the pristine and sparkling floor. The house has very obviously been through some thorough cleaning. She follows Angela upstairs, and they go straight to the last door in the hallway. When it opens, it becomes clear that it’s <em>their</em> bedroom. Or was. She still can’t conclude what happens from here, what belongs to whom. So far, it seems that they both still share ownership over everything.</p><p>Angela places the two bags on the bed and starts emptying them of their contents. She puts Fareeha’s laptop on the desk, and starts arranging her clothes in the closet. Fareeha takes the opportunity to look at the various pictures on the desk and nightstands.</p><p>The first one she sees is the one that is her laptop’s wallpaper background. She tries once again to recall <em>anything</em> about it, but to no avail. The second picture is of them sitting on a sofa at what looks like a building’s lobby. Fareeha seems to be napping on Angela’s lap. Angela is holding a tablet computer in one hand, while the other is going through Fareeha’s hair. She tries to remember the moment. Nothing<em>.</em> The third picture is of them holding hands at a park, each holding an ice cream cone in their other hand. Mild stress grows to frustration. <em>Nothing.</em></p><p>The fourth picture, though, is what catches her attention undivided. Everything else fades away as she looks at the picture, awestruck. Her throat, which had since loosened up a little, is constricted again.</p><p>The picture is of her and Angela, standing at what seems to be the front yard. Fareeha is keeled over with the happiest laughter she could never imagine, her eyes closed and face red. Angela is beside her, hands pressing either side of her wife’s face, planting a kiss on her cheek. If her happiness had looked sparkling in the first photo, it looks absolutely beaming now. She can’t help herself brushing her fingers against it, slowly tracing the outline of their faces. She loses her vision as she blinks back the hot tears forming in her eyes. She wants so desperately to remember this moment. To know what it’s like to be so content with life, while present day continues to make it seem like a series of tragedies. To simply enjoy the moment and forget about all the sorrows in the world, with the one she loves by her side…</p><p> </p><p>“Your mother took that one.”</p><p>She jumps at the sudden voice and places a hand over her heart in an effort to calm down. Angela seems too focused on the object in question to care. “It was the start of winter. You told me how much you hated snow, and I was determined to change your mind.” A fond smile full of nostalgia slowly takes over her lips as she continues. “So I said we should have a snowball fight. It would definitely make you see why winter is magical.” Her gaze never leaves the photo as she picks it up. “After about twenty minutes, we were both exhausted. Ana said it was the perfect time to take a photo. She was certainly right…” Angela trails off, lost in remembrance.</p><p>Fareeha stares at the sight before her in wonderment. She looks to the photo, back to Angela, and back to the photo. “We look very happy.” It’s the truth. She can’t think of anything more to say.</p><p>“We were,” Angela says, never once breaking her gaze.</p><p>The response stings her heart. <em>Past tense.</em> She steps back, suddenly very uncomfortable looking at the doctor. She feels ashamed that it has taken her until this moment to realize it; realize just how much Angela has lost. She was going to spend her entire life with Fareeha. She had believed that nothing would keep the two of them apart anymore. <em>They were preparing for a family</em>…</p><p>She takes two more steps back and looks around the room, chest heaving as the walls seem to be closing in on her.</p><p>A home is where one lives; where one always feels safe, where one can always return to no matter the circumstances. A safe haven providing endless comfort, where one never has to question whether or not they belong.</p><p>Fareeha Ziegler does <em>not</em> feel at home. She does not feel like she belongs here. She feels like an intruder, who has ruined the residents’ lives. She feels like she doesn’t deserve to be here, to act like the replacement for Angela’s wife, when they were both <em>happy</em> with their lives until Fareeha Ziegler left and <em>she</em> came along. In this moment, she wants to run away, far away from this place, hide where Angela can never find her, until—</p><p>She inhales sharply, uttering a yelp before she can stop herself. Her arm has started quaking violently, and for the first time, it <em>hurts</em>. She immediately clutches it with her right hand, but it does little to control the tremble, and littler still to alleviate the pain. She squeezes her eyes shut and clutches it harder, wanting to do anything to stop the increasing pain.</p><p>In the next instant, a pair of hands are firmly holding her arm. Angela is staring intently at it as she starts pressing her fingers in different places, smoothing her hands over her entire arm every 3 seconds. Eventually she grips above the elbow like a vice and starts working below it with the other hand. When Fareeha regains her senses, she stares in a daze at Angela, pain long forgotten. In this moment, she can see a glimpse of Angela Ziegler as a wife; worried over the one she loves, working as fast as she can to help ease her spouse’s grievances.</p><p>Angela raises her head to look at Fareeha questioningly, and it brings her back to the present. She moves her arm in small motions, the light tremble still present, but the pain has largely vanished. It also reminds her to start breathing again, her lungs no longer feeling like they’re crushed beneath a rock.</p><p>“T—Thank you,” she manages to say after a few deep breaths. Angela simply nods, and rests her head on Fareeha’s arm, hugging it tightly. Fareeha thinks she might start having trouble breathing again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She is sitting on the bed as night falls, watching Angela take out her clothes. “If you need me, I’ll be in the room right down the hall,” she says as she picks up a bundle of sleepwear, “I’ll keep the door open so just call me if you need anything, okay?” Fareeha nods.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s 1:30 in the morning when she wakes up, her mind in a twist. She tries going back to sleep but her mind refuses to relieve her of consciousness. Sighing, she takes the covers off of her, and heads downstairs to the kitchen. <em>A glass of water would be nice.</em> The offending thoughts about not belonging here persist, but the water helps drive away the roughness in her throat. As she’s going up the stairs towards her room, a curious sound catches her attention. She stops, standing still and listening for the source. The sound comes again, muffled, and she deduces it’s coming from the other room. <em>The one Angela said she’ll be in.</em></p><p>Uneasiness rises in her chest as she peeks around the open door. Slowly, Angela comes into view, face buried into a pillow and holding on to another one for dear life. The sound finally registers into her mind as sobs. The covers are unruly, as are Angela’s clothes. Each sound coming from her is accompanied by a visible jerk of her body. Even being muffled by the pillow, the sobs ring too loudly in her ears.</p><p>Of the tempest of emotions that she’s feeling, guilt strikes her the most. Try as she might, she has accepted that she cannot willingly recall memories; she cannot simply <em>become</em> Angela’s wife. And the doctor knows it, no matter how much she tries to make her feel better. The sight of someone so broken; knowing that <em>she</em> causes it by simply <em>existing</em>, sends an enormous, unending tsunami of emotions and none of them are even the slightest bit pleasant.</p><p>She snaps her head back out, feeling as though looking on any more will certainly lead to something awful. She walks back into the main bedroom, heart ready to burst out of her chest as tears begin to form in her eyes.</p><p>She hides herself under the covers, burying her face into the pillow much like Angela had, and lets it muffle the sobs that manage to escape. She thinks about the things she wishes she had the courage to say to Angela. <em>You’re not alone in this. I want me to remember too. I want to <strong>be</strong> that person you fell in love with, but I don’t even know how to be myself. I don’t know my own preferences, let alone your wife’s. I don’t know how to comfort you. I can’t even comfort myself. I just wish you’d look at me and see me for who I <strong>am</strong>, not who I <strong>was</strong>. I wish you do everything you can to help me remember but only because you care for me, not because you just want your wife back.</em> She goes on and on as the sobs grow in magnitude.</p><p>Not for the first time, she wishes that she disappears off the face of the planet, never to be seen again. If only to be able to stop seeing others in pain. Pain that she causes by simply being who she is; by simply having the face and name of Fareeha Ziegler, and nothing truly resembling Fareeha Ziegler.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Word count after publishing: 9942</p><p>Update: 9943</p><p>Added a missing "the".</p><p>Update (August 29th, 2020): Late August to early October is storm season where I live, and so, I will likely not be able to make much progress until mid October. I have not given up on this.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Old Relation, New Acquaintance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Published 15th of October, 2020</p><p>This also happens to be the author's birthday.</p><p>The very day after I made the August update in the last chapter, we had the worst storm of the year. That was nice.</p><p>Word count before publishing: 9943</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“What would I do without you?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“…What aren’t you telling me?”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“You are done. Swear to me that you are done.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>She feels her mind awakening her senses. She is lying, face down, on what feels like a bed. Her arms are sprawled out, palms open. She’s warmer than she should be, considering she doesn’t remember putting the covers on herself the night before, but she blames that on the dull ache in her head. She can’t build up the strength to lift her eyelids, them wanting nothing more than to stay glued shut for a few more hours. She tries lifting her head but feels as if a stack of bricks has been placed on top of it. She tries moving her fingers, slowly closing her palms, and feels them crease the fabric of the bedsheet. <em>Still alive, then.</em></p><p>She lets out a low sigh and sinks further into the bed. <em>A little more sleep won’t hurt.</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Don’t worry so much.”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“…I’m sorry.”</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A soft touch of pain pulls her out of the comfort of unconsciousness. She becomes more and more aware of the dull throbbing in her head as the rest of her body awakens from its slumber. Her joints are still heavy, though not as much as they were before. She takes a deep breath, and slowly, tries to command her eyes to open. Surprisingly, unlike last time, her eyelids decide to let up, but she almost immediately shuts them at the rush of light. She tries again, even slower now; the stinging is still there, but she forces them to stay open despite the irritation. The corners of her eyes grow wetter, but she’s stubborn. A moment passes, and the blurriness of her surroundings starts to fade.</p><p>It feels strange to not see the hospital equipment or smell the chemicals upon waking up, but she certainly doesn’t miss them. She raises her head, mindful of the pain, and rubs the droplets off her eyes. She feels stiffness in her back and stretches and bends, relishing in the numerous <em>crack</em>s that ripple through her spine. The next thing she notices is the rankness of her mouth and so she stands up, feeling more <em>cracks</em> in her thighs, and heads into the bathroom.</p><p>Upon stepping inside, she takes a look around the sink, and notices that there’s only one toothbrush. For some reason, her stomach drops a little.</p><p>Deciding not to dwell on it, she gets to cleaning herself up.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Feeling refreshed, she steps out, walks to the closet and slides it open. There are quite a few varieties of clothing to choose from; the most prominent are the polyester shirts and skinny jeans directly in front of her, followed by tank tops and denim shorts on the shelf below. More of the shelves are filled with casual wear that is slightly loose and soft to the touch, while some others are clearly meant to not get in the way of strenuous activity. There is only a small space housing formal wear in the corner of the top shelf, and she wonders how often she used to go to events that required them.</p><p>For the moment, she decides on a simple V-neck shirt and track pants, not wanting to profile her former self based on her wardrobe.</p><p>She walks out of the room, only to stop a few steps short of the next door. For the first time, there is something in her mind that she wishes was forgotten. Cast away from her memories, never to be summoned again, so she wouldn’t have to think about hurting the one she’s supposed to be spending the rest of her life with.</p><p>It's 1 in the afternoon; Angela won’t be in there. Which means she has to face her. She would have chosen to go back to the bed if it weren’t for her stomach practically growling for sustenance. She reluctantly steps past the cursed room and down the stairs.</p><p>The house seems brighter now; she can’t decide if it’s because of the time of day or her senses being clearer than the last time she saw the décor. The railing is square, not round as she remembers. There are more paintings on the walls than she’d thought, almost every one being of a different place. She walks through the living room, and is glad the minty aroma is exactly as she remembers. <em>At least no permanent memory damage. So far…</em> She frowns. <em>I don’t know if I should be looking forward to therapy.</em></p><p>A new smell enters her nose and her stomach hauls her out of her thoughts, raving at the possibility of finding food. She steps towards the kitchen, but stops upon seeing Angela at the counter, visible from where she stands due to the half wall separating it from the living room. If Fareeha didn’t know better and was asked if the woman had been weeping the night before, she would have replied, ‘No.’ The doctor seems as if this is just another weekday and she is simply preparing a small meal. But she <em>does</em> know better, and it is precisely that piece of knowledge which is stopping her from eagerly striding in there and asking how long until the meal is ready.</p><p>She stands there contemplating what to do next, but doesn’t have to for long as Angela notices her when she turns away from the oven. The doctor gives her a light smile and motions for her to come over. She takes hesitant steps towards the kitchen, considering the consequences of walking out of the house. Upon arriving within her wife’s reach, she is enveloped in a hug. Unused to the gesture, she stiffens as her breathing becomes uneasy, and all she can do is wait for the moment to pass. Angela squeezes a tad harder and retreats a few seconds later. The small smile still on her face sends a pang of guilt through Fareeha’s heart; why, she can’t decide. She is led by Angela to a stool in front of the counter. The soft guiding hand on Fareeha’s back may as well have burned a hole into it. She takes the offered seat.</p><p>“Lunch is almost ready,” Angela informs, planting a quick kiss on her head. The already raging storm inside her intensifies. She had wondered before how strange it was to imagine Angela as anything but distressed. But to see it first-hand, especially after what she witnessed the previous night, feels stranger than she was prepared for.</p><p>“You seem happy,” she can’t help but say. Angela’s smile falters as she looks at her, then to the floor before replying, “I admit, I haven’t been very well these past few weeks…“ <em>I know. I saw it.</em> Angela looks back to her, the smile returning easily, “But I’m just happy that you’re finally here. I’ve been waking up alone for so long; I needed this more than I can say.”</p><p>“But you woke up alone today,” Fareeha says before she can stop herself. “But I knew you were here,” comes the reply. <em>Fair enough.</em> She is suspicious, but before she can think more about it, a <em>ding</em> comes from the microwave, letting the couple know that the meal is ready.</p><p>Lunch is a fairly mundane affair. Fareeha finds she is much hungrier than she’d realised, and once she is handed the plate, anything she had wanted to say is forgotten. They are both seated on stools in front of the counter, one too hungry to move to the table and the other just enjoying the closeness.</p><p>Once the plates are placed in the sink, however, Angela cannot hide her anxiety. Fareeha narrows her eyes as Angela clears her throat, opens and shuts her mouth a few times, clears her throat again, and finally speaks, “So, uh… Y-your mother is going to be visiting today…” Fareeha’s visible reaction is a mere lift of her eyebrows. It makes sense; she had been in a coma for a long time. If her mother has not seen her for so long, then naturally she would stop at nothing to see her as soon as possible. She doesn’t know why Angela would be nervous about revealing the news.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It isn’t until 30 minutes before her mother’s scheduled arrival that she realises the magnitude of what she is about to face. She is about to meet the woman who gave birth to her, who took care of her for a large portion of her life. And Fareeha didn’t even know what she looks like until a week ago. What is she supposed to say? How is she supposed to behave? How can she possibly know what to do when she doesn’t even know herself well enough?</p><p>She’s sitting on the couch in the living room, wracking her hands until they hurt. She’s been stealing glances at the clock for the past 20 minutes, dreading the inevitable moment it strikes 3:00pm. Angela had tried to put her at ease but she couldn’t stop herself from trembling. “We’ve talked this over, she won’t try to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” were her words of reassurance. They’re of little value to Fareeha, as she doesn’t really know the woman who is about to walk in. She will most definitely have to make conversation, and not only that, she will have to do so for an extended period of time. Thinking about it is again making her claw at her wrists, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to prolong the inevitable.</p><p>The doorbell rings and her head snaps to it. 8 <em>minutes early. Not a good sign.</em> Any hopes of it being someone else are vanquished when she hears Angela open the door and address the visitor. “Okay, we’ve been over this, Ana, don’t be–“</p><p>She doesn’t get the chance to finish as the woman pushes past her and rushes into the living room. Fareeha hardly has the chance to stand up, let alone have a proper look at her, before she is pulled into a crushing embrace. She hears the woman gasp and mutter something, but it all happens too quickly for her mind to process. She simply freezes, neither wanting to return the gesture nor escape from it. Her heart races, twisting her perception of time to make every minute feel like an hour.</p><p>Everything else fades as the moment stretches on forever; her wife looking worriedly at her, the house with its aesthetically soothing patterns, the pain in her trembling arm, the anxiety of meeting someone who had known her a lifetime. Slowly, the hug feels less possessive and more protective; the arms crushing her ribs ease into a firm grip around her shoulders, one hand smoothing her back, the other curled around her head and softly pressing it into the woman’s shoulders. Her lungs burn to remind her that she hasn’t been breathing, and she starts doing so deeply. Her breathing immediately falters again as the woman starts pressing kisses to the side of her head.</p><p>Once again a barrage of emotions comes crashing down on her. Her breathing quickens and the familiar pool of tears starts forming in her eyes. Her heart feels like it will seize at any moment and the strain in her arm becomes too painful to ignore. It must be showing on her face, as Angela wastes no time in stepping forward and separating her from Ana. She blocks out the sounds of her wife reprimanding her mother, choosing to focus on trying to recollect herself.</p><p>There is a pause, and she realises the women are now staring at her. She takes a few deep, calming breaths, swallows the lump in her throat, and tightly grips her left arm. With one last sigh, she opens her eyes and looks back at the two. Ana is the first to break the awkward silence. "Well... I'm very glad to see you are fine now." <em>That's debatable.</em> Ana awkwardly holds out her hand. "I'm Ana...your mother."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Word count after publishing: 11,829.</p><p>I had written more, but couldn't find an acceptable way to end the chapter without dragging it on for too long. Finally, I decided to cut it. I will include their interaction in the next chapter. Things are also going to get a bit heavy, emotionally, and so the rating may change from Teen to Mature.</p><p>Whenever I sat down to write this, I couldn't help but feel this is a much worse story than the one I want to tell. Which is true: This is a tamer, condensed interpretation of a much darker story. I keep fearing that this is a suboptimal experience for the reader, but I don't want to suddenly change tones. So this story will deal with different issues; I will make it stand on its own instead of a watered down version of something else.</p><p>If it's any consolation, this means that when I eventually write the original story, my experience from this will help make a more fulfilling read.</p><p>25th of December, 2020: Minor revisions in chapter text, word count up from 11,836 to 11,950. Chapter name changed from 'The Oldest Relation' to 'Old Relation, New Acquaintance'.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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